Page 39 of The Golden Hour

Mason scrubs both hands down his face and takes a deep, shaky breath.

“I don’t… I can’t fucking explain it in a way that makes sense,” Mason says, feeling his face screw up as a new wave of tears falls down his cheeks. “When I’m home with Honey, everything is calm. Good. Safe. She’s so good and sweet and perfect… it’s everything I ever wanted…”

Rob nods, encouraging him.

Mason has to force the words from a tight throat. “…but I don’t feel…”

He almost gags on the confession because he feels like a monster.

Something passes across Rob’s face, and his furrowed brow softens almost imperceptibly.

“Satisfied,” Rob finishes flatly.

Mason exhales sharply, nodding his head, pressing a hand to his sour stomach.

“Yes,” Mason says. “It doesn’t make sense. Honey is everything to me. I love her so fucking much. She’s the fucking air I breathe; she’s my everything. My life. My wife. But there’s something missing. Something I feel like I need, and it’s not in my marriage, and I know it’s not healthy, but I just… need it. I can’t go a day without it.”

Rob closes his eyes, and he looks both broken and understanding.

“Fuck. You know who you sound like?” Rob asks, his voice rough.

Mason shakes his head.

“Me,” Rob says. “Back when I was deep in the bottle.”

Mason freezes. “What?”

He had no idea his dad had an issue with alcohol. Granted, they didn’t keep any liquor in the house, and he never saw his parents drink when they were home or out, but he just thought they didn’t want to. Honey had even suggested maybe they were teetotalers, which just made him want to kiss her breathless for her vocabulary.

He never saw his parents drink, so he just never wanted to as well.

When he and Honey were in college, they were usually the designated drivers for their friends. Mom and Dad, their friends called them, and every time they said that, Mason would just look at Honey and feel settled. Like he was exactly where he should be, doing exactly what he should be doing.

Rob sighs once more at his baffled look.

“It was before you were born,” he snorts, before correcting. “Before you were even an idea.”

“You were an alcoholic?”

“Thirty-four years sober,” Rob says, a small, proud smile curving at his lips. “Your mama didn’t want to get pregnant until I was five years sober.”

“I didn’t know,” Mason whispers.

“It’s not that we wanted to keep it from you,” Rob says. “It was just… something I was ashamed of, Mason. It was a very dark time for your mother and me. We worked through it together. I’ve worked through it every single day since.”

“What happened?” Mason asks.

Rob is quiet for a long moment, brow furrowed and jaw tight, eyes flickering back and forth like he is trying to gather his thoughts.

When he does speak, his voice is a low murmur.

“I love your mother. She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved. But whiskey…” Rob sneers with a cold smile. “She was my mistress. And when she called, I dropped everything for her.”

Mason feels like he swallowed a bunch of pepper, his throat closing, that weird itchy feeling in his mouth. He has never seen his father so vulnerable, so soft.

“Your mother fulfilled me,” Rob continues, voice rough again. “In the real way. The deep way that actually matters. But alcohol… that satisfied the sick part of me. That first buzz I chased like nothing else. And once that buzz was gone, it was gone. But I still chased it every night, drinking until I could feel it again.”

Mason’s back tenses at his words. It’s like his father’s holding up a warped mirror. Not the same. Familiar. Similar. Too close.